Third Time Pays for All
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The third time's the charm, or three strikes, you're out.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors' Notes:** This story was originally posted as the third episode of H&M Virtual Season 4. New episodes are still appearing bi-weekly at HandMvirtualseason dot homestead dot com. Cheers to all the staff writers and technical folks!

One character in here, DA Thompson, was borrowed from the Gullsway Collective story, "Justice". Freddy Dyer and his boss, Mr. Ferris, were lifted from the third season episode "Conventional Warfare" (L.M. hearts Freddy—best henchman ever).

**Third Time Pays for All**

by L.M. Lewis and Owlcroft

**Prologue**

The older man looked down at the papers in front of him on his desk, pursed his lips for a moment and then reduced that to a steady frown.

"Not good. These numbers aren't looking so good."

The younger man, who was by no means young, shifted nervously in a chair designed to be not-quite comfortable.

"I can explain—"

"Don't try," the older man said sharply. "Lying is bad, but apologizing is worse." He leaned forward, eying the spineless guido he'd summoned to his office. Not much to work with but he would have to do. "_Fortuna_—you're familiar with her?"

"Ah . . ." a look of perplexity crossed the guido's face. He'd left his little black book back at the hotel; they'd yanked him out of the club with no warning. Besides, he didn't know if it would make his situation better or worse to be acquainted with the broad, whoever she was. Before he could make up his mind, though, the older man became impatient.

"Fortune smiles on you today," he growled, "because you have something I want."

The other man looked up, suddenly hopeful, like a guy who's spotted a rope dangling above shark-infested waters. "Other than money?"

"Of course," the _patronus_ leaned back comfortably, elbows on the armrests of his chair, fingers tented before him. "There's someone you know . . ."

"You mean beside this Fortuna gal?" Sonny Daye said cheerfully.

**Act I**

Judge Hardcastle pursed his lips over the sheet of paper before him. He put a penciled check mark next to another book then frowned and threw the pencil aside.

_Ah, what's the use? The ones I have are probably out of date. He may as well just buy the whole bunch new. _

He started counting the number of books on this semester's reading list, then jerked his head up as the doorbell rang. Glad to be interrupted, he tossed the paper onto his desk and trod up the steps to the front door. Peeking through the glass, he saw a dark-haired man around sixty—flashy dress and an insouciant air.

_Oh, no. What is it this time? _

_Be nice, he's McCormick's dad. Be friendly. _Grimacing, he pulled the door open.

"Hiya, Milt. Mark home?"

The judge stared at him. "Sonny. What're you doing here?"

"Ringing your doorbell and asking if Mark's around," Sonny Daye replied with a grin.

"Nah, he's at school. Be back around four. You planning on sticking around for a while this time?"

"Maybe." Sonny's tone was noncommittal. "School, huh? Thought he said he'd graduated from high school. But if he's getting his GED, hey, that's great."

"Law school, Sonny," said Hardcastle dryly. "You wanna come in?"

"Oh, yeah, that's right. He said something about that in a letter I got. Law school, huh?" Sonny raised his brows and shook his head slightly. He gestured with his head toward the steps down into the den, and, at the judge's nod, descended them and looked around for the most comfortable chair. "Who woulda thought? Hey, listen, it's really you I wanted to talk to."

"Okay, what brings you here?" Hardcastle took his place behind his desk and leaned back, regarding the other man with a tolerant air.

"Well, I heard from some of my old 'business partners', if ya know what I mean," Sonny gave the judge a look filled with significance, "that Jersey Joe Beiber's on the warpath. You know his final appeal was just denied."

"I heard that. The court didn't even allow it to be presented. So he's looking at a long ride up the river with no paddle. 'Bout time, too, if you ask me."

"Ain't that the truth. But get this. He's not real happy with things right now. You know, looking for some revenge, and he's got a pretty hefty incentive hanging out for the guy who takes down the vigilante judge that sent him up." Sonny lowered his head meaningfully and gazed up from under his brows at Hardcastle. "You get my drift?"

"He's from your old stomping grounds, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but I never worked with Jersey Joe. He was _nuts_. Hey, don't tell the kid, huh? He'd worry about both of us."

The judge sniffed, then gave Sonny a sober look. "I thought you were strictly legit, now. Turned over a new leaf and all that jazz. What's a club singer doing running around with a buncha hoods connected to Jersey Joe?"

"I don't need to explain anything to you," Sonny said huffily. "I know a lotta guys, all right? You don't have to be a shark to swim in the ocean, you know. So I heard something and I came straight out here and that's the thanks I get. That's swell. You don't want my help, that's fine with me. I tell you what, Hardcastle, I'll just hit the road, okay? You don't even have to tell Mark I was here. Just forget it. Forget I ever said anything." He pushed out of the chair and stalked off toward the hall.

"Okay, okay, c'mon back in here." The judge rubbed his nose thoughtfully as he stared at Mark's father. "So you want to keep all this just between us, huh? Not get the kid involved. That's gonna be kinda tough since he lives here and all."

Sonny shrugged. "I guess I figured you could make a couple calls to some of your buddies in blue and get the whole thing taken care of. You know, have them roust some hoods and put 'em in the stone dormitory."

Hardcastle shook his head. "That's not the way the system works. It's not the way _I _work. Listen, I'll do some checking up and see what I can find, but if—"

Both men froze at the sound of the Coyote out front.

"Ah, okay." Sonny fingered his tie nervously. "I'll just leave it all up to you. I've done my part anyway, right?" He straightened his expensive-looking jacket and pasted on a smile.

The front door slammed and a voice called, "Hey, Judge! I'm ho-ome!"

"We're in here," called back Hardcastle.

"We?" said McCormick, as he entered the archway. He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of his father. "Sonny?" he asked in surprise.

"Mark, hey! You're looking good, kid!" Sonny made a slight gesture as if to offer an embrace, but McCormick stuck an emphatic hand out to offer a shake.

"Sonny? When did you get here? And _why_?"

"Hey, c'mon. That's no way to say hi to your dad." The judge's tone was gruff.

Mark quirked an eyebrow at him. "Oh, yeah? And I bet you killed the fatted calf for him."

"So, how you doing in school?" Sonny hastened to interject. "I gotta admit, it was kind of a surprise to hear you were going into the law biz. But hey, it's great. Really!" He laughed self-consciously. "I never knew anybody who graduated from college before."

Hardcastle bridled at that. "Well, you know _me_."

Mark snorted and waved Sonny toward the chair at the window side of the judge's desk. As he dropped into his wingchair, he said, "Oh, it's a lotta work, but I'm getting through. Most of the other students are a lot younger than me, but I've got an edge." He jerked his head toward Hardcastle. "Kinda have my own personal tutor." He settled back in his chair, eying his father with a wry smile. "You just dropped by for a visit, or did you win another bar?"

Sonny smiled back. "What's the big surprise here, huh?" He gestured toward Hardcastle who'd been drumming his fingers in the desk. "It's like I was telling Milt before you got here: I was passing through L.A. and look—you're my kid, right? I should stop by and say 'hello'. Nothing so strange about that."

McCormick sighed and looked at the judge. "Okay, are _you _gonna tell me or do I have to bring out the thumbscrews?"

The judge smothered a grin, shrugged and looked at Sonny. "I think he knows us too well. What say we fill him in before he gets all tough with us?"

00000

"Frank, this is Sonny Daye." Hardcastle jerked a thumb at the man hovering nervously behind him. "You remember him from that bar business, with Doyle Madison's bunch."

Sonny hesitantly reached around the judge to extend a hand. Frank nodded and smiled, meeting his hand halfway. "Yeah, sure. How could I forget? You throw a hell of a grand opening, Sonny." The lieutenant gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. "So, what can I do for you guys?"

"Now don't go flying off the handle, but Sonny's heard something." Hardcastle gave him a half-cocked smile that was intended to be reassuring. "Jersey Joe might be doing some subcontracting. We got a couple names for you. Middle-level guys from back east who owe him."

He'd slipped the folded page from his pocket but didn't offer it immediately despite Frank's extended hand and his impatient, "_Milt_—"

"Next you'll be talking about putting a guard on the estate, safe houses," Hardcastle grumped as he reluctantly handed over the information, "a lot of folderol like that."

"Don't bother, Frank," interjected McCormick wryly. "I've already lost that argument."

Hardcastle hmmphed and then added, "Two of them are in my files: Jimmy Bianchi and Vinnie Russo. I've penciled in the muscle they normally use. But the third one's new to me. Sonny says he's never heard of him, either."

Frank gazed down at the page, the concern in his expression deepening. "Some guy named 'Herennius'? That's not ringing any bells. No first name even?" He sighed. "I can run him through the system, but listen, Milt, if there's been a credible threat—"

"I don't know that guy," Sonny said nervously, "but those other two aren't the kind that bother with threats first. You oughta listen to the lieutenant here about the guards and the safe houses and all that."

"All I want is a little basic information," Hardcastle said firmly. "Two of these guys are already on the FBI's radar. It shouldn't be too hard to tell if they start making any moves. And anything at all on our Mr. Herennius: a mug shot—weight, height and hair color, even. How hard can that be?"

Harper sighed and put the paper down on his desk. "I'll do what I can, Milt, but you could try being a lower profile target once in a while, and you know Thompson, over at the DA's office, he's gonna pitch a fit when he hears about this."

Hardcastle made a face. "Who says he has to know about it?"

"He's got one of his legal weasels calling me almost every day about you. He says you've been avoiding him. I dunno why he thinks _I'm_ the one to pester about it."

"Hah, _see_? I try keeping a low profile and nobody's happy anyway. Besides, I can't help it if the man is disorganized. I'd be in there every day if he had his way about it. I put half a dozen cases right in his lap—"

"And that makes you and Mark his prime witnesses: the Van Zants, the Austin murder, that screwy thing with Randy Hopke—"

"He shouldn't need me to hold his hand. There's plenty of evidence in all of those cases . . . and McCormick's got classes, ya know."

Frank looked momentarily puzzled, and then gave it a shrug. "I dunno. All I know is he's been jammering at me, so I figured I better jammer at you.

Hardcastle waved it off. "Objection noted. Now get me some intel on my mystery man."

00000

The three of them strolled out into police lot, heading for the truck. Mark made a determined lunge for the driver's side and got there first. Hardcastle, having wasted time heading that way, was the last one in on the passenger side. There was relatively little grousing; he seemed lost in thought. That probably explained why he didn't comment on the black sedan that started crowding them once they were out on the PCH. Mark thought they'd picked up the tail somewhere early on.

"Anybody we know?" McCormick asked as he feathered the gas, temporarily widening the space between them and their stalker.

Sonny turned halfway round, peering through the rear window anxiously. Hardcastle, jogged from his contemplation, gave a quick glance toward the mirror and grunted, "A Caddy with chrome—it's not the cops."

McCormick had already come to the same conclusion, along with the assumption that the tag number he was busy memorizing would turn out to be stolen. Their pursuer surged forward suddenly, evaporating his scant lead. Mark ignored the tap on the bumper, knowing it was intended to make him reflexively slow down. The sedan had both speed and maneuverability on its side.

But not mass. As the driver of the car accelerated and started to pass, Mark caught a glimpse of a gun barrel protruding from the passenger window. It was only a small advantage to have the intended target muttering aggravatedly from the far side of the seat—Mark knew even if the gunman only got the guy behind the wheel, the truck might easily plunge off the road.

He floored it to regain his cab-length lead and then swung out wide, returning the tap with interest, this time against the Caddy's front passenger quarter.

It dropped back, careening wildly. For a moment the driver looked as though he might regain control of his vehicle, but then it ran up on a soft shoulder and spun to a halt in a spume of dust. Hardcastle had his gun unholstered but Mark kept going.

"Why didn't you—"

"Stop and see how many guys were in there riding shotgun?" Mark shook his head. "Uh-uh. Back to the ranch, Kemosabe. You can call Frank so he can say 'I told you so'."

Their attackers were already out of sight around the curve behind them. Sonny turned slowly, facing forward again with a rigid expression. Hardcastle, gun still in his hand, looked dissatisfied. Nobody had any words of appreciation for the evasive maneuvers.

"You're welcome," McCormick said with a sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Act II**

McCormick was relieved to see the homestead appeared undisturbed, but not surprised that the judge took a careful look around, with his weapon still at the ready, before finally heading inside. It didn't take any further nudging to get him over to the phone, either.

Mark stood there long enough to see that he was dialing Frank's office, then snagged Sonny's elbow and tugged him quietly toward the hall.

"Got some nice begonias out here," Mark said. "You ought to see them."

Sonny looked mystified but was silent as he let Mark usher him out the front door. It was only after they were down the steps and a short ways along the path that he said, "I'm not all that big on flowers, kid."

"I know," Mark muttered. "Fertilizer's always been more your strong suit." He shook his head and drew up short, turning to face the man. "Listen, I'm only going to ask you once. Why the hell are you here?"

"What," Sonny managed to look mildly offended, "a guy can't do a good deed for a friend of his kid's?"

Mark's lips tightened as though he were holding in his first and most instinctual response. After a long and judgmental moment he replied, "Some guys for some kids, yeah. _You—_"

"Well, I don't expect you to believe me," Sonny said. "I guess that beating I took last year—"

"_Wait_." Mark held one hand up. "Wait a sec. The thing with the bar. Okay, I guess that was sort of on the up-and-up. But if you'd just told us from the start that you won it from a wiseguy in a shady card game—"

"The judge," Sonny hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the house, "would've tossed me out on my butt. Can I help it that just once I wanted to do something for my kid?"

Mark murmured "'Just once,'" half to himself. He stared past his father, back toward the house. He could see Hardcastle standing by the window, receiver still in his hand, gesturing intently as he spoke.

He glanced back at Sonny, then fixed him with his most implacable gaze.

"I still don't get it. Okay, so you came here to do a good deed—you've done it. But now the hammer's coming down and," he shook his head again, this time in wonderment, "you're still here. _Why_?"

All he got in answer from Sonny was a nervous shrug.

00000

Hardcastle finished his report to Harper with the license number—a Jersey plate, of course, and little hope of it actually belonging to the vehicle in question. Frank also hadn't made any progress in identifying that Herennius guy.

"_And, just like I figured, the D.A. wants you to see you, pronto_."

"You told him, huh?"

"_I had to, Milt. Bieber calling a hit on an ex-judge—"_

"So what's it got to do with Thompson? I did my testifying almost a year ago. Bieber's already run through the whole appellate process and struck out."

"_You'e still forgetting about the Eagle and Van Zandt? And how 'bout the Norcross case? How many times have you run for mayor and caught a CEO in an illegal dumping scheme? Like I said, you're a valuable property. Other evidence or not, Milt, you're the lead-off man on a couple of his witness lists. You can't blame the D.A. for taking an interest_."

"Thompson?" Hardcastle snorted. "All he's interested in is his conviction rate."

"_Okay, yeah_," Frank conceded, "_but he's stuck with you, and you're stuck with him, so would you please make __my__ life a little easier?_ _Pay him a visit_."

"Don't see what good it'll do. He's gonna start talking about safe houses—all that nonsense."

There was a stern silence from Frank's end, and then, finally, "_This can't just be about the safe house. It started before that was even a possibility. What the hell's going on, Milt?"_

"Yeah, well," Hardcastle muttered, it was hard to lie to one of his oldest friends, even a lie of omission, "some of his 'legal weasels' are a little sharp."

"_That's good, isn't it?_"

"Hmm . . . mostly it is, except when it come to the parts where they get very interested in ways and means."

There was another moment of silence on the line, before he heard Frank clear his throat and ask, hesitantly, "_You mean the McCormick method?"_

"Yeah," Hardcastle said gruffly, "evidence acquisition, no holds barred."

"_When did that become a problem? Like you said, they've got more evidence than they need. You're the frosting on the cake and most of the time they don't even use Mark."_

"Hah . . . that was before, when he was just an ex-con and they didn't want to touch him with a ten-foot pole. Then they used him in the Price/Falcon case and got a slam dunk, not to mention his parole's ended."

"_So what's wrong with all that? Sounds like he's an upstanding citizen doing his civic duty."_

"And if anybody reads between the lines on those proffers, even _mine_, they're going to figure out he went through some locked doors or flashed a phony ID to get at some of that evidence." Hardcastle had lowered his voice, but even at a near-whisper it was very intense. "He's gonna be a candidate for the _bar_ for crissake."

It seemed to have finally gotten through to Frank, producing a long sigh from his end of the phone and then, "_Okay, I get it. He can't start working on a clean slate until you've buried the old ones. In the meantime, maybe a squad car in the driveway—for me?_ _Have a heart, Milt; I'm lousy at eulogies._"

"I'll think about it, Frank." The judge tried to sound conciliatory. "And you can just tell Thompson I was a horse's ass—he'll pretty much be expecting it."

They parted on civil terms. Frank even managed to avoid saying "I told you so." Hardcastle put the receiver back in the cradle and realized he was alone in the den. He half-turned, catching a glimpse of the other two men standing out along on the walkway that lead to the gatehouse. They were intent in conversation.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It made sense, he supposed. First the bar incident—sure, it hadn't turned out all that well but that hadn't really been Sonny's fault. McCormick had to realize his dad had been really been trying that time. Now another visit, this time to give them a heads-up, and Sonny hadn't beat feet the moment danger loomed.

Hadn't he hoped that the guy would start living up to his son's pretty reasonable expectations? And now that he finally had, wasn't it natural that Mark would see something to look up to?

00000

It was the shrug that swept the fog of uncertainty from Mark's mind and convinced him—beyond a doubt—that something wasn't on the up and up. He reached out, snaring Sonny's arm in a firm grip, stopping just short of shaking some sense into the man.

"Lemme make this perfectly clear. I don't care who else or what else you're afraid of, if you aren't being absolutely level with _me_ then you've got a bigger problem than you think."

"It's nothing like that, kid." Sonny's grin wavered between placating and insouciant.

Mark shook his head. He wasn't buying whatever his father was selling. He leaned in, giving up his grip in the man's arm for some pressure on his shoulder.

"You're not getting it, Sonny." He half-recognized the confidential growl he was employing as something he'd heard Hardcastle use.

"Getting what?" Sonny asked nervously.

Mark let out a long sigh, shook his head, and started up again in slow, measured words. "If it turns out you _haven't_ been on the level—if you do _anything_ that puts him more at risk . . ."

Unlike the growl, this was all his. As unspoken threats went, it had the ring of absolute sincerity. Sonny swallowed once and seemed to force another, fainter grin, but he had the decency not to defend himself any further.

Mark's stare narrowed a little. "All right," he finally said, having made up his mind—he really had no choice, "I need your help—"

"_Mine_?"

"Yours," Mark said glumly. "I have to meet somebody—an appointment."

Sonny leaned in, threats and hazards apparently pushed aside in the interests of a good conspiracy. "Who with?"

"Nobody you know." Mark frowned. "But I need you to distract the judge—nothing fancy, just make sure he's not staring out the window when I leave. I won't be gone long. Can you handle it?"

00000

Hardcastle watched them, feeling moderately resigned. He assured himself that he was absolutely in favor of Mark having the father he'd waited twenty-seven years for. That hand on the shoulder sure looked like a conciliatory gesture, and Sonny wasn't sidling away with his usual air of avoidance.

He turned from the window, intending to head down to the file room. He figured he'd take up where he'd left off this morning, perusing the files for anything that might give him a handle on the one remaining mystery assassin. He thought Sonny and Mark could use a little space.

He hadn't even made it as far as the end of the hall, though, before he heard a perfunctory double rap quickly followed by the knob turning and a hesitantly inquiring, "Hey, Judge?"

It was Sonny, with the door half-open and his head poking around the edge.

00000

Mark made a clean get-away. He didn't expect he'd be lucky enough to have his entire errand go unnoticed, but he'd already laid out his alibi: "I had to run over to school."

It had the ring of truth. There were some professors on the law school's staff who wouldn't extend a deadline even on account of a mob contract. Hinckleman would probably say, "Hmmph, if you were dead, you wouldn't be asking."

And, for added veracity, while Mark had been on the phone that morning setting up his appointment he'd had the forethought to suggest a place actually on campus—the basement coffee room of the law school's library. Somehow he wasn't surprised that he hadn't had to give detailed directions to the person he intended to meet.

He spotted his quarry seated at a table in a position that made perfect strategic sense, facing the only door and with the wall against his back. But otherwise the man looked perfectly at home in a collegiate atmosphere. With his drab wool vest, tweed jacket, and wire-rimmed glasses he could have passed for a graduate student—or more likely an associate professor. His only greeting to McCormick was a considered nod, not so much unfriendly as reserved.

Mark slipped into the seat at right angles to him, on account of he didn't want his back to the door these days either. He summoned a cautious smile and said, "Who's ahead, Freddy, you or me?"

Fred Dylan cocked his head slightly, as though he were running the stats. He probably was. There was only the slightest hint of a return smile—the kind that passes between trench-mates who've seen some battles—before he answered, "I think we're even."

"Too bad," Mark said. "I need a favor."

One of Freddy's eyebrows rose just slightly. This was someone who didn't do surprised very often. Mark wasn't sure exactly what his job description was. Henchman didn't quite cut it. Consigliere might have been a closer bet: Don Ferris' right-hand man and advisor, and even in near-retirement Ferris was a force to be reckoned with in the West Coast mob.

Mark knew better than to ask Ferris to intervene in an East Coast hit, though. He knew even if he _had_ been holding that big an IOU on Ferris, fighting mob with mob would be anathema to the judge.

Dyer must've known that much about Hardcastle, too. Hell, he probably knew the man's shoe size—Freddy _knew_ things.

"What kind of favor are we talking about here?"

"There's a contract out on the judge," Mark said bluntly. "Someone tried to do the hit today."

"I'd heard something about that," Freddy said, not indicating just how up-to-date his information was.

"How much do you know?"

The answer was silence.

Mark swallowed once and nodded his concession. "Okay. I don't need to know it _all_. Just one thing." He slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it over.

Freddy took it, glancing down at what was written there.

"It's one of the hit men, just the last name, Herennius." Mark said. "Ever heard of him?"

Dylan mouthed the word in silent concentration. His eyes narrowed slightly for a moment before he shook his head. "Nobody by that name in the Organization—not that I'm aware of."

Mark looked doubtful for a moment. "You're sure? Maybe it's an alias."

Freddy squinted slightly. He might have been running some program—scanning an algorithm. Mark held his breath.

"Not one that's being used by anyone who's currently active in the profession on either coast, or anywhere inbetween."

"Someone new, maybe? Just up from the minors?" Mark asked, his hopes fading fast. "Maybe from overseas? An import?"

"No, Bieber is strictly a union man. When he hires a hit, he buys American. Still . . ."

"'Still' what?" Mark asked impatiently.

"There are possibilities," the other man murmured more distantly.

"You'll look into them for me?"

Freddy seemed to snap back into focus, as though he'd executed a long series of complex equations whose answer was 'yes'. He nodded once slowly.

Mark was already on his feet. He thought a thank-you might have reminded Dylan that he'd just offered to do a favor for the enemy. Instead he said curiously, "You didn't check it in that notebook of yours."

"That really isn't necessary."

"You know them all? Every guy who's ever done a mob hit?"

Freddy nodded once diffidently. "Among other things. A lot of things. Lists can be dangerous. I'm eidetic."

"Eidetic?"

"I just have to picture the page." Freddy shrugged. "It's all up there."

Mark considered this for a moment. It wasn't all that surprising except—"That notebook you use, why—?"

"Ferris knows, sort of," Dylan grimaced slightly, "not the rest of them. It's a socially awkward skill to possess in my profession—lots of things need to be forgotten. If a list is dangerous, it's just as dangerous to _become_ the list."

He stood and nodded once sharply. "I'll check into it and let you know if I come up with anything."

Mark watched him depart. He felt oddly relieved, as though the vague promise was a sure thing. A moment later his relief was subsumed by an even stranger feeling. He suddenly realized he'd just been unnecessarily confided in by a man who had probably never done an unnecessary act in his entire life.

He pondered that for a moment and then shook off his concern. Whatever Freddy's motives were, if it got them the inside track on this Herennius guy, Mark would be grateful.

00000

Mark checked his watch as he approached the estate—a total elapsed time of just over one hour and the front gate looked calmly inviting under the cerulean sky.

_Open_, and inviting. He frowned as he turned in off the road. He was certain he'd closed it. Then he heard the fuselage of shots, and before he could gun his own car, another vehicle—a late model Camaro—came roaring out, its tires slinging a shower of gravel at the Coyote.

His frozen dilemma was resolved a second later by the welcome sound of running feet and some winded cussing—the judge, definitely. He couldn't imagine Sonny running toward a source of gunfire. There was no time to waste though. He peeled off after the Camaro.

He didn't give much thought to what he'd do when he caught up. He took the twists and turns of this familiar stretch of road with practiced ease and caught a glimpse of the muscle car on the first straightaway. He was aware of a wildly inappropriate feeling of well-being: drive, chase, catch. There was no room in that sequence for worry.

And then, abruptly, he knew something was wrong. There was no car in sight as he came out of the next curve, even though he'd sped up. His quarry must've taken one of the canyon road turn-offs. Mark slowed. He heard the distant cacophony of more than one police siren. He pulled to a stop on the side of the highway and cussed quietly—just a couple of heartfelt words.

It was lack of practice. He'd lost his edge. If he'd narrowed the gap quicker the guy wouldn't have eluded him. On the other hand, he might have cornered a dangerous killer while he himself was armed with nothing more lethal than a ball point pen and a yellow highlighter. He let out a sigh and cast one reluctant look up the empty road.

No, he'd definitely lost the guy.

He wheeled the Coyote around in the width of the roadbed and gunned it, heading back to the estate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Act III**

There were two black-and-whites and a familiar sedan in the drive by the time he pulled in. Hardcastle was standing near the front stoop gesturing animatedly to Frank Harper, who looked as though he were trying to herd his witness indoors. Sonny wasn't in sight.

The judge stopped even minimally cooperating as soon as he caught sight of Mark.

"You got 'em?" he asked impatiently.

Mark thought it was pretty obvious that he hadn't. He shook his head. "An '86 Camaro, black, one of those IROC-Z's; it had a chimsel." He rattled off the plate, which he suspected had not originally been issued to a Camaro. He noticed the other two were staring slightly. "You know—that brake light up high in the middle, a C-H-M-S-L—'chimsel.' They didn't have them last year, so it's an '86."

The staring hadn't abated much, though Frank turned slightly and relayed the basic information to one of the officers. Mark managed a half-shrug. He couldn't help it if he was a little eidetic himself—though only when it came to cars.

Then he gave the judge a harder look. "You okay? What the hell happened? I heard a bunch of shots."

"Yeah, well, you missed most of the excitement," Hardcastle said dryly.

"I was over at school." He thought he'd gotten it out smoothly—maybe a little flat.

All he got from the judge was a hard-to-interpret, "Uh-huh," and then, "well, I heard that damn souped-up car coming a ways off. I told Sonny to stay out of the way and I grabbed a shotgun."

"Sonny—"

He didn't get a chance to finish the question. The man himself stepped out on the stoop, looking around warily. He spotted Mark and gave a jaunty half-wave that contrasted sharply with the worried set of his eyes.

"Hey, kid, you get your assignment handed in?"

00000

Eventually Sonny retreated upstairs and all but one of the cop cars departed. Harper had insisted on some sort of guard detail at Gull's Way unless Hardcastle wanted a ride to the nearest available safe house. With that as the alternative, the judge capitulated.

In the den, with at least an appearance of peace reestablished and the real subject of his aggravation not open to discussion, the judge shifted to something a little more general.

"Is he gonna stick around for a while?" He glanced up toward the ceiling and, presumably, the guest room above. "Not that I mind," he added, trying to lighten his first remark with a smile

McCormick noticed his effort and responded in kind, "If you'd made him sleep on the couch in the gatehouse instead of one of the rooms over here, he'da been gone by now." He forced a grin as he plopped into a chair. "Sonny's not all that stoic, y'know."

Hardcastle settled into another chair, but not the one behind his desk. Even he seemed reluctant to have his back to a window these days. He also seemed to be giving Mark's comment more thought than it required.

He finally sighed and said, "I just want you to know—I get what's going on."

Mark felt his jaw go slack and pulled it up again, if only to swallow hard. He thought he'd been keeping his suspicions about Sonny under wraps. As little kinship as he felt with the man, it still amazed him how much he could be embarrassed by Sonny's failures.

"I'm sorry," he finally blurted out. "I should've said something."

"Why?" Hardcastle asked, looking genuinely surprised at the admission. "I mean, he's your dad and all. I think that gives you some kinda right to keep stuff between you and him."

"But this—it affects you."

"Some," Hardcastle shrugged, "yeah, I guess."

"You _guess_?" Mark shook his head in disbelief. Hardcastle might be the master stoic, but this was taking the practice to extremes. If the man suspected Sonny was a hazard, he ought to be raising a ruckus and shaking the truth out of him.

This calm bore an uncanny similarity to another occasion only a year back, when the judge had been diagnosed with a fatal blood disorder. All in error, it turned out, but while the shadow of death had hung over his friend, nothing Mark had done had been able to dispel his resignation.

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. "Look, we're going to talk about this some more, just not now. What's important _now_ is figuring out who this third guy is, and making sure he doesn't get a whack at you."

"Sounds about right," Hardcastle said.

"And after that we can deal with the whole Sonny thing," Mark added nervously. He presumed once they held both ends of the string, the web could be unraveled. If Sonny had been any part of that, it would be obvious.

The judge nodded. He seemed more than willing to put off the inevitable revelations. Mark figured that was out of kindness to him. Did the judge still think Sonny meant that much to him?

He frowned and finally got to his feet. "In the meantime, no objections if I move him out to the gatehouse?" He figured his worst suspicions had been pretty much laid bare with that request, but what if he had failed to act on them and it turned out Sonny_ was_ completely suborned?

To his surprise, there was no anger in Hardcastle's expression—a hint of sadness, perhaps, which Mark could completely understand. Sonny had come to them under the guise of friendship.

"Whatever you think is best," the judge said. The tone of resignation was back and his expression was unreadable.

Mark nodded once and turned to leave.

00000

Hardcastle watched him go. It only made sense that the kid would want to spend a little more time with Sonny. It was a real step forward in the relationship. He hoped his reply hadn't sounded too flat. He suspected it had. He kept telling himself that he had no objections at all to Sonny resuming his long-neglected place as McCormick's father—better late than never.

But the bottom line was he didn't trust the man—not his motives, and even if those happened to be legit, most certainly not his capability for long-term commitment. It had nothing at all to do with Sonny inevitably moving on, and Mark maybe wanting to move on with him. He swore his real concern was Sonny building up his son's hopes and then dropping him flat again. Really.

00000

Mark trudged up the stairs, intending to announce the change in accommodations to Sonny then and there. It wasn't until he got to the top of the steps that he heard a muffled voice from beyond the half-closed door of the guest bedroom.

Had it been anyone else, he would have knocked to announce himself, or merely turned and headed back downstairs. Instead, he froze for a half-second, and moved closer, soundlessly.

From his new position he could make out the anxious cadences-Sonny's side of a telephone conversation.

"Yeah, I'm still here—"

Mark resisted the urge to hustle into Hardcastle's bedroom and pick up the other extension. It would be bound to tip Sonny off.

"—but I'm telling ya, my kid's not stupid. He's on to me."

Mark reached out for the banister to steady himself. Even his deepest suspicions had left some room for hope. That door was closing fast.

"I didn't say nothin'. God's my witness. I swear," Sonny protested. His voice had risen a half-octave in what was sounded like panic. He seemed suddenly aware of the increase in volume, too. He dropped down to a near-whisper and said something further that was indistinguishable.

Mark stepped forward and even the whispering stopped. He heard the receiver settle into the cradle as he pushed the door open without knocking. There was a quick stiffening of Sonny's shoulders and a half-jump as he jerked his head around and locked gazes with his son. It was obvious he'd been staring down at the phone.

Sonny's face was caught in a freeze-frame of fear, just for a split-second. Then it sublimated into his usual nonchalance, even a half-smile that revealed not one iota of guilt.

"Hiya, Mark. You missed all the excitement, huh?"

Mark schooled his own face into non-judgmental passivity and nodded wordlessly. _How many times has he lied to me before?_

He didn't think it would help to accuse him now. The one thing Sonny had in limitless supply was chutzpah. But even knowing this, Mark might have spoken his mind if only to hear the man's lies. It would be like cauterizing a wound: a painful searing heat in place of a slow draining of faith. But then the phone rang again. He twitched and sensed Sonny's nearly identical movement.

It was only the one ring—obviously Hardcastle had picked up the receiver downstairs. In the sudden silence Mark stared at his father but said nothing. Chutzpah or not, he watched Sonny swallow nervously.

If he'd been on the verge of a confession, it was suddenly pushed aside by an impatient bellow from the bottom of the stairs.

"Can't put it off any longer," the judge groused. "Gonna have to run downtown."

Mark frowned for a second, then stepped out into the hallway and looked down the stairs. Hardcastle was leaning, one hand on the lower end of the railing.

"They caught some of 'em?"

It didn't seem likely; the judge looked peeved.

"Nah, nothing that useful. It's Thompson."

"What's he want now?"

"Well, for one thing, he wants to know who tipped us off about all the 'contractees.'"

Mark frowned and glanced over his shoulder. Sonny had been edging forward, naturally curious, but at hearing this he stepped back, looking reluctant.

Mark shook his head in barely concealed disgust. "The D.A. doesn't want to _book_ you." He paused briefly and then revised that. "Okay, well, maybe he will, but it'll only be because you're related to me."

Sonny didn't look reassured. Hardcastle slapped the top of the newel post impatiently and hollered, "He doesn't need a tux for this show."

"Come on," Mark nudged Sonny toward the stairs. "The D.A.'s is safer than hanging around here, right?"

The material witness seemed reluctant. Mark had a sudden notion that he wouldn't mind seeing Sonny get the third degree, even from Thompson himself. The nudge turned into a firmer prod.

Hardcastle was squinting up, directly at him. "You coming, too?" he asked. There was a grim set to his expression.

Mark had his father in tow. He would have thought it was obvious that Sonny needed all the encouragement he could get. He shrugged. "We're the Three Musketeers, looks like."

"More like Larry, Moe, and Curly," the judge muttered, looking not too happy as he let the other two pass and then followed them out the front door.

00000

Hardcastle's truck pulled out—past the fountain and down the drive. In the now empty house the phone on his desk rang, and went unanswered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Act IV**

Mark didn't think it was his imagination, the way things had gotten suddenly quiet as the three of them passed through the outer office occupied by D.A. Thompson's minions. He knew a few of the assistant D.A.s by name and one of them, Shuster, a new hire who'd been on the outer edges of the Dex Falcon trial, gave him a sympathetic nod, but then quickly turned away, busying himself with a phone. There were some cold and wary stares from the others. For once, most of them were directed at Hardcastle.

The judge sailed between the rows of desks like a guy who really didn't care much about the opinions of minions. Mark had only a second to wonder if he'd keep right on going, past the door and into Thompson's inner sanctum, without knocking.

It didn't come to that. The receptionist must've phoned ahead. As they approached, the door opened from within. It wasn't Thompson who'd done the opening, but a burly guy who looked more like a plainclothes detective than an A.D.A. Mark figured him for one of the department's investigators, some of whom were former cops.

Thompson was seated behind his desk, and didn't bother to get to his feet to greet his visitors as he drawled, "I was starting to think you'd become a hostile witness, Milt."

"Now you know me better than that, Dean." The judge's grin bordered on lupine, and Mark knew for a certainty that the two men weren't ordinarily on a first-name basis. "I came as soon as you called, didn't I?"

Thompson exhaled sharply through his nose, but didn't challenge that remark. Instead his gaze turned abruptly to Sonny, who'd been doing his best to stand partly behind the other two.

"So this is your informant? Mr. ah," he glanced down at a pad of paper on his desk, "Daye, is it? Among other names, I see," he added drily.

Sonny didn't extend a hand. He glanced nervously at Mark and then forced a smile as he turned to the D.A.. "Just trying to do my civic duty. Anyway, Milt here is practically like family."

Thompson couldn't help looking down at the pad again with puzzled furrow of his brow.

"What he means is," Hardcastle interrupted, "is he's Mark's dad, so he did me a favor—a friend of a friend thing."

Thompson was still frowning at the page before him, which was obviously incomplete. He finally looked up again, this time at Mark, and shook his head as he muttered, "I should have figured."

"Listen," the judge growled, "Mr. Daye heard some rumors and he came to me about it. I reported it all to the LAPD—"

"Your buddy Harper."

"Who last time I checked was a duly sworn officer of the City of Los Angeles—like I said. So maybe you should spare us the aspersions and tell us why you insisted we come down here."

Mark found himself staring at the judge. He was pretty sure this sterling defense of Sonny was mostly built on Hardcastle's dislike of Thompson but still . . .

"I _asked_ you to come down here because I received reports that there have been two attempts on your life so far today and _this_ man," Thompson nodded sharply at Sonny, "is by all accounts a material witness in the matter."

"He's a guy who's already told us what he knows."

"I think that remains to be seen. And I intend to ask him a lot more questions. I've got a grand jury already impaneled. They're considering some other issues related to organized crime. I'd say this will fit in nicely," Thompson said brusquely. "Needless to say, I've already got the subpoenas drawn up and ready to be submitted." The D.A. had been leaning forward, one finger tapping the desk as he spoke. But then, almost as suddenly he settled back into his chair as though he'd just made a chess move.

The judge was eyeing him narrowly. There was a tense silence between them until he finally asked, "Subpoenas?" The emphasis was on the plural.

Thompson risked a thin smile and shifted his gaze briefly to Mark. "_Subpoenas_. Three of them, or . . ." He paused for a moment and then proceeded, this time with a tone more commonly reserved for political dinners. "Or we can keep this civil. My department extends an offer of protection to you until this matter is settled, in exchange for whatever information you may have that will help us settle it."

Hardcastle looked grim. "Protective custody?"

"I prefer to call it safeguarding witnesses. Do you have any idea the chilling effect it will have on my other cases if a convicted felon were able to orchestrate a hit against a prominent witness from behind bars?"

"Okay, I get it. If Jersey Joe takes me down, it'll make your office look bad." The judge frowned and shot a quick glance of his own at Moe and Curly, then back at Thompson. "I need to confer with my clients—in _private_."

Thompson gestured magnanimously to the man who'd shown them in and was still standing at near-attention by the door. "This is Investigator Shea. He'll show you to a conference room." The unspoken assurance was that he'd also stay right outside, possibly listening in, and definitely not allowing anyone to depart.

Hardcastle seemed to be putting as good a face on it as he could. There was even a brief, nearly courteous nod to their escort as they were shown into an otherwise unoccupied room. Once the door closed, though, Hardcastle's expression settled back into a hard frown as he pulled up a chair and sat down at the table, the other two joining him.

"He can do that?" Mark asked impatiently. "Put Sonny in front of a grand jury and pump him?"

"Can, and will—him, and you, too. And it'll be no holds barred, with Thompson doing the questioning."

"So," Mark tried to keep his tone confident, "if things get too dicey, Sonny pleads the Fifth."

"Him, yeah," Hardcastle miffed, "but what about you?"

"Me? What do I know that I can't tell them?"

"About this? Probably nothing—for once, at least—but you think Thompson is going to stop at just the past couple of days? When he gets on a roll, with thirty attentive jurists to play to, he's going to nail you on every case you've been a party to in the past three years. He'll ask whatever he likes, and you'll have to either perjure yourself, or tell 'the whole truth and nothing but the truth.'" Then he added in a mutter, "So help you God."

Mark swallowed once and then countered, feebly, "Or I take the Fifth, too."

"Let's see how well that'll sit with the Moral Fitness Board, when you come up for the bar in a year or two. They don't have to believe you're innocent in the absence of proof. They know innocent guys don't rely on the Fifth Amendment."

Mark pondered this for a moment with a sinking feeling. He finally lifted his head wearily. "Is that why we've been avoiding Thompson lately?"

The judge grunted, neither a yes nor a no, but then he insisted, "He didn't need your testimony in the Austin murder. The only thing you could do is poison his evidence tree and screw up your chances at the bar."

"He needs you, though," Mark pointed out. "I mean, you're the guy Norcross recruited to make sure his candidate got elected mayor. You're the one who can show the murder was part of a conspiracy. You _need_ to testify."

"And next time I tell ya not to break in to steal evidence, will you listen to me?" the judge grumbled.

Mark sighed and nodded. Sonny, who'd been watching the whole thing in mystification, said, "I'd just as soon not take the Fifth, either. Stuff like that makes me nervous."

"Right," Hardcastle said flatly, slapping his hands against his thighs and getting to his feet. He looked more determined than resigned. "So what's a few days in a safe house in the cause of justice? Clean sheets, three squares. Maybe a little cable TV."

Sonny looked doubtful and Mark took a turn at being mystified. Giving in was not the Judge's M.O. but he'd already turned toward the door and, raising his voice only slightly, announced that they were done conferencing. The door opened inward and their escort appeared, expressionless.

Thompson was only a few steps further away, standing at one of his minion's desks, leaning in to say something that was accompanied by an unpleasant expression. The man he was speaking to was Shuster, who looked surprisingly impervious for a new guy. Maybe he realized Thompson's anger was displaced. The D.A. turned and took the three of them in with a haughty demeanor.

"My client and I have decided to take you up on your offer," Hardcastle said, pulling Sonny forward with a firm hand under his elbow."

Thompson frowned, having caught the singular even before Mark did. "It's a package deal," he said. "All three of you."

"There hasn't been any threat against McCormick. Ask Sonny."

"Oh, I _will_, but—"

"And who knows how long we'll be holed up? The kid has classes. He's shelling out good money to go to law school, and a week or two will dice the whole term."

Thompson grimaced, as if it recollection of the kind of riffraff that was entering the profession these days, but almost at once he seemed to settle for two birds in the hand.

It was Mark who protested, "But _Ju-udge_—"

"I thought we'd covered that thing about you listening to me next time."

Mark was knocked silent by the sharpness of his tone.

"This way, gentlemen," Thompson gestured. "Mr. Shea will take you. I want to get this done before Bieber's people are on to it."

Sonny smiled wanly at him. Hardcastle hung back for a moment, leaning in and muttering, "Somebody needs to take the truck home and keep an eye on the place. I'll look after your dad; make sure he stays out of trouble."

Mark looked down at the keys he'd been handed. "Yeah," he said quietly, as Hardcastle hustled to catch up with the others, "but who's gonna keep _you_ in line?" But the judge was already gone.

00000

Mark didn't stop to talk to anyone. Shuster was on the phone again and everyone else gave him sideward glances that were only minimally less hostile than when he'd come in. He went down the elevator and out the front door seeing no more of Sonny or Hardcastle. Presumably Thompson had a back door for witness smuggling. Mark figured they'd be in the underground lot by now, climbing into some anonymous black van with tinted windows. He thought somebody ought to speak to the people in charge of fleet purchasing. Those vans always stood out like a sore thumb.

He was pondering the futility of subterfuge when he spotted a familiar figure, standing impatiently next to the judge's truck, which had been parked on the street not far from the D.A.'s offices.

Mark picked up his pace, closing the distance between them. "_Freddie_?"

Fred Dylan stopped in mid-pace, looking up. "Well, finally. I tried to reach you by phone."

"How'd you know I was here?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"Process of elimination. Listen, you ever read any Plutarch?"

"Huh?"

"Plutarch, you know, _Lives of the Romans_?"

"No, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Yeah, well, neither had I. Dammit."

'But what's that got to do with—?"

"Herennius. He's in Plutarch. He was a Roman centurion."

"Okay, so it's some kind of code name."

"Right. Listen to me. Mark Antony, remember him?"

"Vaguely." Mark frowned.

"He was a powerful guy. Cicero was getting in his way. Mark Antony sent Herennius to track Cicero down. He caught up with him as he was leaving his country estate. He decapitated him and brought the head back to Antony. End of story. Cicero was a dead, sixty-four year old lawyer. Is any of this sounding familiar?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Where's Hardcastle?"

Mark stiffened. He knew he ought to be one-hundred percent wary of this question, but he felt nothing like the suspicion he'd had a few moments ago in Thompson's presence.

_No_, he thought, and out loud he said, "It can't be Thompson; he's the D.A., for crissake."

"It doesn't have to be him, but _think_—does referencing the late Roman Republic sound like Jersey Joe's style?"

There wasn't all that much thought required. "No," Mark shook his head, "it'll be somebody who reads stuff like Plutarch, and thinks he can make a joke that no one else will get." He frowned. "How'd you figure the Plutarch thing out?" he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer he blurted out, "_Norcross_. He's snooty enough to think he could get away with it. Buy Jersey Joe's contacts—Bieber's going up the river for a long time anyway; a powerful friend on the outside wouldn't hurt.

"But who the hell is Herennius?" Mark muttered, still thinking out loud. "A centurion—somebody official, but just a foot soldier." Mark blanched and shot a look back over his shoulder. "That guy, Shea. I've never seen him before."

Freddie's brow was furrowed when Mark turned back to him.

"Shea—tall guy, 6'2", 220, dark hair, scar," Fred closed his eyes as if the last part needed a cleaner projection screen, "above his left eyebrow?"

Mark wasn't sure about the scar, but the rest was close enough. He shoved Dylan in the direction of the passenger door and popped the locks.

"It's a clean alias, and he's got papers to go with it," Freddie said, climbing in on the opposite side. "His real name is Victor Pompano. But decapitation isn't his M.O."

"That's a comfort," Mark muttered. "Hang on." He pulled out with a sharp turn of the wheel and took the corner too fast. The exit for the underground lot was on the opposite side of the building and he rounded the second corner just in time to see a black van merging into the left turn lane a block down.

He might be wrong about this; it was pure gut instinct, but he gunned it, navigating around the slower cars, still unsure what he was going to do once he caught up. _Catch up, then worry about the rest_.

He hear the familiar ch-chack of a round being racked into the chamber of semi-automatic and turned his head just enough to see that Freddie was not limiting himself to an observer's role.

"He might be a different guy named Shea," Mark said doubtfully.

"Don't worry; I only shoot guys from the D.A.'s office in self-defense."

Mark gave that an absent nod as he swerved around a Caddie that wasn't taking advantage of the newly-green light. He suspected his quarry was aware of the pursuit. The van had gained ground on him and might soon be lost in the traffic. He picked up his pace, jumping a yellow and hearing the screeching application of brakes from his right.

"They call this the death seat," Freddie observed as the guy in their wake laid on his horn.

"That's only for left turns," Mark said, making his from the middle lane on fewer than four wheels. He caught another glimpse of the van, now two blocks ahead and turning right, north again, into the canyon roads. "Hang on."

He took that turn even more sharply, slamming his own shoulder into the side window. The van was gone from sight, lost in the maze of twists and turns ahead, but with nothing on either side that wasn't a dead end.

"He's headed for Bryson Canyon," Mark said, with more assurance than he felt. Then, as if to confirm his guess, he saw a spume of dust, as though a heavy vehicle were taking a dirt road with too much speed. He mentally ran the odds and found himself repeating them out loud to Dylan. "Shea's got to have backup in the van. No way Hardcastle hasn't figured out something's not kosher by now."

Freddie had the courtesy not to suggest that Cicero might already be dead, Sonny, too, though he'd been strangely absent from Mark's calculations. He preferred thinking of his father as a nullity, than weighing the possibility that _he_ was Shea's backup.

"Check the glove compartment; the judge keeps his piece in there." He heard Freddie undoing the latch.

"Yeah, a .45."

"Hang onto it for a minute. Almost there." He slowed as they passed the gate into the park and heard the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. At the first turn-off he came to a halt. They were on a slight rise, though there were shoulder-high patches of scrub and a few small trees on either side. He saw a shimmer of dust hanging over the road to the right. He almost thought he could make out the fresh tire tracks.

"There," he said, "see?" He clutched the wheel and swung it to the right.

"Pull over," Freddie said sharply. "It's a dead end."

"No sign—"

"Doesn't matter. It is. I've seen the map."

Mark sighed, edged the car in among the bushes, and put it in park. "'The map'? Every _road_?"

"Once I figured out where we were . . . yeah." He handed Mark the .45. "It curves to the south and ends about a quarter mile up. We can cut through," he whispered, now that they were both out of the truck and standing side-by-side.

Mark gave him a considering look and then lowered his own voice to respond. "This isn't your problem, you know. I can handle it from here."

His companion, consigliore to a high-level, not-quite-retired mobster, was silent for a moment. He finally let out a weary sigh and said, "I think I'm supposed to be here."

"Says who?" Mark tried to keep the alarm out of his tone. "_Ferris_ sent you?" Starting a gang war had not been on his to-do list.

"No," Freddie admitted, "not in so many words. I didn't bring it up with him—" a brief look of guilt crossed the man's face and then he plunged on, "but when you find a copy of Plutarch's _Lives_ on your doorstep first thing in the morning, with the right page dog-eared, well . . .," his voice trailed off; he looked over his shoulder, across the trackless route they'd take, "consider it a sign."

"Anyway," he straightened up and checked his weapon one more time, "like you said, Shea must have backup, and who knows what shape your judge is in, so you _do_ need me."

"No shooting," Mark said sternly. "No unless there's no other way."

Freddie nodded once in reluctant agreement but did not holster his firearm. Mark hadn't either, in fact he'd left Hardcastle's bulky leather holster in the truck.

He pointed to Freddie's right, a silent suggestion that they fan out. They made their way through the clumps of brush, trying to move quietly despite the graveled surface. There wasn't enough scrub to offer concealment, but the road ahead dipped down Their approach ended at a rocky escarpment.

Mark dropped flat and saw his companion do the same a dozen feet to his right. The black van was parked below, about twenty yards off and ten feet below them, with Shea and two other men just on the other side of it, gathered in close. It was hard to say what they were doing.

Even with the element of surprise, charging in wasn't going to do any good. Despite his earlier admonition to Dylan, Mark thought about taking them out at this range, only to realize that the first shot, successful or not, would send all three down behind the car, with Hardcastle and Sonny as hostages.

The nearly-frozen tableau held for a moment—kidnappers and observers—until finally something seemed to have been decided down below. Two of the three men stepped back for a moment and the third, Shea, opened the rear sliding door. Then he stepped back, too, and it became evident that he was gesturing to the occupants with a gun.

"Just behave for once," Mark muttered under his breath. Freddie must've caught the words, or at least the tone. He never took his eyes off the men below, but a hint of a wry smile twitched the corner of his mouth.

00000

Hardcastle hadn't been surprised to see two extra men waiting for them when they and Shea first got to the van. Anything worth doing was worth doing right. It was Sonny who'd frowned at one of the men who'd climbed in the vehicle, taking the seat behind them. The frown was transmuted to a persistent expression of puzzlement, but it wasn't until they were pulling out into traffic that Sonny leaned in and spoke, almost lower than a whisper. "I keep thinkin' I've seen that one guy before."

The judge didn't turn. He'd been thinking it was odd that he _hadn't_ recognized either of the two, and come to think of it, Shea must be a new guy as well. But to Sonny he only returned a whisper from the corner of his mouth. "A fan maybe? Or a former arresting officer?"

Sonny gave him a quick grimace. Hardcastle supposed it was better than panicking, and it was only natural that they were both on edge—him on account of two assassination attempts in one day, and Sonny because he was Sonny. But none of that explained the prickling feeling at the back of his neck, and the way Shea kept glancing in his rearview mirror and pushing the pedal as though they'd already picked up a tail.

"Someone back there?" Hardcastle asked casually.

"Nah," Shea growled. "Thought maybe, but . . . nah." Still, he pushed his way through traffic like a man who didn't quite believe his own assurances. Their route led mostly north, toward the twisting residential streets beyond the 101, a logical place to put a safe house.

Except they didn't pull into one of those quiet, out-of-the-way streets but continued on, until they passed through a back entrance to one of the parks on the north edge of the city. He supposed they might be passing through, en route to Burbank or Glendale. Maybe this was part of their protocol, a good way to detect a tail. He'd just opened his mouth to ask when Shea turned sharply onto a barely-graveled dirt road, careening for a moment and obviously taking it too fast for conditions.

Hardcastle shut his mouth. There was no point in letting on that they were anything but compliant witnesses with full faith in their guards. He shot another quick glance at Sonny. Anxiety had won out over puzzlement, but he seemed to share the judge's opinion on not doing anything to wrinkle their façade of cooperation.

They'd entered a small open area, sunk ten feet below the surrounding valley and obviously a dried-up creek bed, probably the head of an ancient spring. To their other side rose a moderate-sized cliff of sandstone, and at its base was the entrance to a cave. It'd be nothing spectacular, knowing the local geology—either a short tunnel through to the other side, or a smooth, dead-end chamber. It was nobody's conception of a safe house.

At any rate, the jig was up. Hardcastle was surprised not to feel the nose of a pistol pressed into the back of his neck. Shea put the van in park and pocketed the keys. He turned halfway around in his seat, leveling the gun from their direction. The other two men exited past them, while Sonny sputtered something about having rights.

Hardcastle was figuring the odds. It was essentially one against three, though at least Sonny was predictable in a crunch. Their guards were conferring just outside the car. Shea kept his weapon trained on them through the open driver's door. The final decision was made in what seemed to be only a few moments, then the rear door on that side was opened and they were gestured out at the point of Shea's gun. The other two men were armed as well.

Oddly, no one carried a shovel. The judge assumed Jersey Joe didn't mind their bodies being found. With his sentence of natural life, it hardly mattered. He was still puzzled about one thing though.

"You're Herennius?" he asked Shea.

"Huh?" the man said, then Hardcastle felt a shove from behind. They were being herded into the cave.

00000

Mark had finally caught sight of Hardcastle—Sonny, too. Both were on their feet and appeared unharmed, though it didn't look as if that would go on much longer. They were being hustled into the cave at gunpoint. The only advantage was that all three of their captors now had their eyes and attention focused in that direction.

He only spared a quick jerk of his chin for Freddie, who'd already come to the same conclusion anyway. The slope to Mark's left was less precipitous, a scramble rather than an out-and-out leap. He descended as silently as possible. Freddie had found his own route down and now both of them were crossing the open space at a sprint, stopping just short of the van and crouching down to regroup.

They were reduced to hand gestures now, and Mark showed his a hastily acquired visual aid: a rock twice the size of his fist that had some heft to it. Freddie looked at him with utter disbelief etched on his face and made a slight wiggling motion with his gun. Mark shook his head once, his expression stern. Freddie exhaled silently and groped around with his free hand for a rock of his own.

One quick glance over the hood of the van showed that two of the kidnappers were just inside the cave's entrance, facing in. That still left Shea unaccounted for, but Mark was sure that time was running short. He moved to the front corner of the van, while Freddie took the same position at the back, and with no prearranged signal except for Mark starting the charge, they launched themselves on their targets.

It must not have happened in slow motion, though it seemed to take forever: crossing the few remaining feet, his breath loud in his own ears, the implacable descent of the rock and the dull thud that reverberated through his hand and wrist. There was no more noise than a grunt from his victim as he sank to his knees. Mark barely registered the nearly simultaneous fall of the man two feet to his right.

But Shea had heard it. Though it was nothing as definite as two pistol shots would have been, he naturally started to turn. They could see him now, ten feet further into the obscurity of the cave, with the even less distinct shapes of the judge and Sonny beyond him, only their faces paler than the surrounding shadows.

There was that moment where everything seems frozen, the milliseconds in which nerves tried to respond to brains. Then everything was in chaotic motion again as two shots were fired.

"_Dammit_."

That was Freddie, down on one knee, leaning on the rock-felled heap of goon in front of him, with the silhouette of his weapon being brought to aim.

"No!" Mark shouted. The judge and Sonny were still in the line of fire.

He moved to intercept Freddie but suddenly realized it wouldn't be necessary. Shea had been toppled off his feet and was down on the ground, with Hardcastle in possession of his weapon.

Nerves caught up to brains, and reflexes stood down—Freddie lowering his weapon while Hardcastle cocked his head just slightly, as if he couldn't make much out against the backlight.

"_McCormick_? Hah, figured it was you makin' everybody nervous. Who's your friend?" He squinted to make some details.

Mark, rolling his own goon aside to disarm him, stood and gestured to his companion. "Judge, you remember Freddie, right? We met him in Palm Springs last year."

Freddie was still in a kneeling crouch. Hardcastle had already ID'd him, if his puzzled scowl was anything to go by, but any awkwardness that might have ensued was suddenly displaced when Freddie's weapon slipped further to the ground, a prelude to his slow, crumpling collapse.

"_Dammit_." This time it was more of a gasp as Freddie clutched at his right side. Mark was there, pulling his hand away and lifting the edge of the man's sweater.

"He's hit."

"Me, too, I think. Huh, didn't feel like getting shot; 'course I've never been shot before." The muttered soliloquy came from off on Hardcastle's left, where a huddled shape could be just made out, sitting on a boulder.

"_Sonny?_" Mark started to get to his feet. "Where?"

"My arm." It was now evident that he was clutching a spot halfway between his right elbow and shoulder, but he was sitting mostly upright and he sounded alert.

"Okay," Hardcastle said, in a take-charge tone, "we'll tie up Shea and his buddies. You get these two out to that van and hustle 'em down to St. Vincent's. It's a hop, skip and a jump on the 101. Check them into the ER and send the cops back up here."

There was a low moan from the goon Mark has hit. Hardcastle looked down disapprovingly and added, "I suppose we'll need some ambulances here, too," he sighed, and then, sharp again, he added, "Let's get movin' here."

Mark got the goons restrained and the victims loaded up. Freddie was pale but still awake, and Sonny seemed more bemused than alarmed by his own situation.

Hardcastle stepped out of the cave for a moment, just as Mark was ready to leave. He leaned in at the rolled-down driver's window and said, "You don't have to drop a dime to Thompson's office just yet, ya know? I kind of want to tell him all about it myself."

"Oh, that guy, Shea, you can tell the cops his real name is Victor Pap—" Mark frowned and hesitated.

"Pompano, Victor Pompano," Freddie muttered from the seat behind him. "Jeez, can't you remember anything?"

There was a parting smile from the judge, subdued under the circumstances, and a slap with the flat of his hand on the hood of the vehicle before he stepped back and Mark pulled away.

00000

Hardcastle heard the first sound of sirens, police and ambulance, not more than ten minutes after he'd seen the van off. Having two gunshot victims had probably increased McCormick's credibility considerably. The goons were both awake now, joining Shea in a trio of sullen "I want my lawyer" stares. The judge didn't even try to question them. He knew Jersey Joe bought silence by the metric ton.

The cops didn't succeed in hindering him much in his efforts to get to St. Vincent's, and he made it there, in his own truck, in just under forty-five minutes from the time McCormick had left. He found him sitting in the ER waiting area.

"Any news?"

Mark shook his head. "Freddie was hanging in there, and I think Sonny had what we in the sidekick biz call 'a scratch.'"

"Well," Hardcastle glanced around, feeling surprisingly uncomfortable, "sorry about that."

Mark lifted one eyebrow.

"I mean, I said I was going to look after your old man, and look what happens."

The other eyebrow joined the first. "I don't think you can hold yourself responsible for Sonny getting in the way. Let's face it, coordination doesn't run in my family. Did he trip when he tried to duck or something?"

It was Hardcastle's turn to look surprised, but he batted that down. Obviously McCormick hadn't gotten a decent view, having just come into the cave from full daylight.

He cleared his throat as he tried to find the right words. "Look," he finally said, "I thought we'd pretty much bought the farm in there, me and Sonny. And I was the guy who'd put in for the mortgage."

"Judge—"

"No, wait, just listen, 'cause I don't want to have to tell you twice. I know you and your dad haven't always seen eye-to-eye, but this visit, well, finally there was some progress." He cleared his throat again. "Maybe I wasn't real sure about Sonny's motives, but I want you to know I was dead wrong about that, and you were right."

Things had gone about as silent as they could, considering the surroundings. The long pause was finally punctuated by a single syllable from McCormick.

"_Huh_?"

"No, I mean it. When push came to shove in that cave, I made my move to try and take down Shea. But Sonny got in first, caught Shea in the arm, and kept him from nailing me. Scratch or no scratch, he took a bullet for me."

Mark stared at him for a full second and then, "Are you _sure_ he didn't just trip?"

Hardcastle opened his mouth to reply, but saw McCormick's gaze drawn sharply to the main entrance. Two men of the sort readily reminiscent of Shea's assistants, entered shoulder-to-shoulder, scanned the room professionally, and then stepped aside, holding the doors open.

The rest of the committee consisted of one man, Don Ferris, in a splendidly subdued charcoal-gray suit and silk tie. His expression was grim. He looked as though he might walk straight in through the door marked "Authorized Personnel Only," but, having seen the judge and Mark, he changed trajectory at the last moment.

"What happened?" he barked, mostly in the younger man's direction.

Mark gave him the Reader's Digest version, starting with Sonny's unexpected appearance on the porch at Gull's Way, and ending with the breakneck drive to St. Vincent's. "Freddy took one shot to the left side, below the ribs. He was breathing okay and still awake when we got here. It's been under an hour. I haven't heard anything since."

Ferris cast a quick glance at the judge. Then he turned on his heel, heading for the registrar's desk, his bodyguards close behind. Words were exchanged, and Ferris was passed inside, having dismissed his men to a couple of chairs nearby.

Mark studied the whole incident and hmmphed. "How come it never works that way for me?"

"He's on a bunch of hospital boards. I think he may have put a couple of surgeons through medical school. He offers a group health plan to his people, you know."

Mark darted a glance at him. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

Hardcastle shook his head solemnly. The expression didn't soften as he went on.

"You _consulted_ Freddie Dylan?"

Mark shrugged and said, "To quote a friend of mine who's very big on law and order, 'It takes one to catch one.' Who else do we know who's a walking data base on hired killers? He came up with that Victor guy's name, didn't he? And, you know I think you're going to find that Shea answers to your old buddy Norcross, the king-maker. Freddie thinks he was pinning it on Jersey Joe as a cover."

Mark turned away, looking back at the registrar's desk with a frown as he muttered, "But who the hell is in _Fred's_ chain of command besides Ferris." He cocked his head. "Hey, you think ol' Ferris reads Plutarch?"

Hardcastle only half-heard that last part. A woman in scrubs had appeared at the "Authorized" door, clip-board in hand. "Family of Mr. Daye?" she inquired briskly. Mark's gaze fastened on her and he stepped forward, the judge right behind him.

"Sorry," she said, "one visitor to start, until the doctor's finished with him. You're family?"

"His son," Mark said firmly.

"This way." She ushered him in, leaving Hardcastle, hands in pockets, staring at the now-closed door.

00000

"He's in examining room six." The woman pointed down a corridor that had doors on either side. Mark headed for the sixth door down, but before he'd taken two steps, saw Don Ferris emerge from that room. Mark paused, looked at number on the nearest door and did the counting again. The mobster didn't look up as he headed into the room directly across from the one he'd just left.

Mark approached cautiously, trying to wipe the frown from his face. He'd almost managed an appreciative smile before he arrived at the door, which was indeed number six. Two quick raps and he entered. Sonny was sitting up on the cart, looking paler than he had earlier. His right arm was bandaged and in a sling.

"What'd he say?" Mark asked, with a sharpness that didn't go with his smile. Sonny looked startled at the question. "The doctor," Mark added, "about your arm."

"Oh this?" Sonny gestured with his good hand, suddenly sounding more expansive, "Aw, it's nothin'. Through-and-through and didn't hit anything major. Of course there'll be a lot of pain—"

"Yeah . . . there always is." Mark didn't release him from his stare, trying to gauge what he was thinking. Then he shifted suddenly. "Hardcastle says you took a bullet for him."

Sonny swallowed once and forced a smile. "Yeah, well, like I said, nothin' a guy won't do for a friend of his kid. Right?"

"Or for an old mob boss." Mark gestured with a flick of his chin back toward the door behind him.

He wouldn't have thought Sonny could have gone any paler. He heard it before he heard it: the halting stutter, the air of bravado.

"You know, kid, your old man knows a lot of important guys."

"He's holding your markers, huh?" Mark said. His tone was weary. It had barely been a question.

Sonny looked suddenly too tired to argue. He gave it a nonchalant one-sided shrug of reluctant agreement. "A few, maybe."

"So tell me, did you take a bullet for Hardcastle . . . or for Ferris?"

There was a silent pause, and then his father cocked an utterly unexpected grin—or maybe Mark had been expecting that all along, too. After all, nobody ever really owned Sonny Daye.

"To tell ya the truth," Sonny said, with his old, insouciant air, "I kinda thought maybe I tripped trying to get out of the way."

00000

Hardcastle had taken a seat across the room from Ferris' men when the "Authorized" door opened again. It was Ferris who emerged. The two men started to rise but he motioned them back down with a wave of his hand and headed toward Hardcastle's side of the waiting area.

The judge rose, not as a sign of courtesy, but more to meet the man eye-to-eye. He'd been thinking through much of what McCormick had said about the day's curious chain of events.

"How's your man?" he asked politely.

"Stable, they call it. They're taking him up to the operating room but they say he'll make it."

"That's good. I like Freddie. I think this is the second time he's saved my life."

"Freddie's a good boy." Ferris touched his finger to his temple. "Mind like a trap. He knows things."

"Not _everything_," the judge pointed out.

"Nobody can know everything, except God," Ferris said piously.

"Yeah, maybe," Hardcastle nodded, "but I'm guessing there's things you know that Freddie doesn't."

"Not much. Freddie's my right-hand man."

"And your right hand maybe doesn't know what your left hand is doing."

Ferris smiled thinly. "It's better sometimes if your right hand doesn't even know you _have_ a left hand."

"Who is he?" Hardcastle said, already knowing he wouldn't get an answer, but needing to ask anyway. "Your plant in Thompson's office, the guy who knew about Shea's double life. Is that why you needed to cover my ass, to keep the heat off Thompson? Does _he_ know about your left hand? Hell, you bought a judge once, why not a D.A.?"

"Nonsense," Ferris said calmly. "From all reports, Mr. Thompson is a fine, upstanding officer of the court, and what point would it serve to upend the D.A.s office? The rogue has been found, and in the nick of time, too, it appears. I only did what any decent citizen would do."

He smiled again. "And good luck convincing your friend Thompson that one of his choirboys has any other allegiance."

His smile was briefly broader, but then faded away to reflect his other concerns. Ferris turned, heading for the door with his men up and behind him, leaving the judge, for once, speechless.


	5. Chapter 5

**Epilogue**

Hardcastle looked up from the list he was studying, having heard the familiar rumble of the truck even before it cleared the last turn into the drive. He watched McCormick climb out, slam the door, and amble in the direction of the main house. 

He put the piece of paper down before he heard the front door open and Mark holler, "You in here, Judge?"

"'Course I am, where else would I be?" Hardcastle grumbled. "You get him off to the airport all right?"

"To the airport and onto the plane. One-way ticket to Las Vegas." Mark shook his head slightly. "I hope that's far enough."

"Is that any way to talk about your father?"

"Yes," Mark replied flatly, and then he amended that with a grimace and said, "Just so you know, I was right. He confessed: he tripped onto that guy who was going to shoot you."

"I dunno. It all happened pretty fast. I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Okay," Mark said, slouching into a chair, "innocent until proven klutzy." He glanced at the judge's desktop and then stood up again to get a better look. "What are you doing? Oh, don't tell me—is that still next semester's book list? I _knew_ I shouldn't have shown it to you."

"Why not?" Hardcastle huffed. "I'm in the footnotes of some of these books, ya know. I've got autographed copies of a couple of them. First editions."

"Yeah, I know, but most of them are in the law school library, and there's five of us that are thinking of starting a study group—you know, share the pain—and we were figuring we'd do some sort of book co-op, too. That reading list is a mile long."

"So you're gonna need a bunch of books; that goes with the territory." Hardcastle gestured toward his own law school diploma, hanging on the wall beside his desk. Then his eyes narrowed suddenly. "You aren't worrying about how much this is costing me, or something dumb like that?"

"_Me_?" Mark pointed at himself. "Worrying about you coming up with the scratch? Uh-uh, Kemosabe."

"'Cause that wager was my idea and you won it fair and square" Hardcastle looked down at the list again, erased a couple more check marks and said, "I think I'm just going to buy them all new."

"_Ju-udge_, some of those are over a hundred bucks each." Mark was on his feet and had snatched the list back. "Listen, I'm the guy holding your marker, right?"

Hardcastle frowned momentarily and then gave that a nod.

"Then maybe I should be the guy deciding how it gets paid off, _right_?"

"Yeah, I suppose that makes sense."

"Good," Mark glanced at the list in his hand, then folded it and shoved it hastily in his pocket, "Sheesh," he turned and strolled up the steps to the hallway, shaking his head, "offer to turn over a new leaf and he wants to buy a whole damn Carnegie li—"

Hardcastle heard it end abruptly in mid-mutter as the front door slammed closed. He had a notion that it wasn't so much about the books—_did they really put a hundred dollar price tag on some of them these days? _He shook his head. No, not the books, but the "ways and means."

He thought maybe it was time to pay off that marker in full.


End file.
